


our exquisite corpse

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Lies, Loneliness, Manipulation, Other, baseless speculation that elidibus did dalamud, saying one thing and meaning something else as a form of legitimate communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: In the golden age of Allag:- Two Ascians are mistaken for lovers- A civilization's doom is slowly, but surely, constructed- Emet-Selch presents Elidibus with a recreation of an ancient Amaurotine instrumentOR:Metaphorical slow-dancing in a soon-to-be corpse
Relationships: Elidibus/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	our exquisite corpse

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent lore speculation. I wanted very badly to post this before 5.3 potentially renders it all obsolete, so it may be a bit rough. Title from Lady Lamb's "We Are Nobody Else":
> 
> I KNOW I BUTCHERED OUR EXQUISITE CORPSE -YOUR LINES WERE TENDER AND MINE WERE MORBID. I WAS JUST NERVOUS THAT YOU WOULD NOT BE KIND SO I POURED BLOOD ON THE KNIFE WE TRADE OFF BEING SO TERRIFIED LET'S FIND SOME BRAVERY BABY, AND LAY DOWN THE KNIVES I LOVE YOU - AND I WANNA GO ON LOVING YOU

In the wake of Xande’s return, all of Allag buzzes with energy. From the glittering crystal spires of the crown city to the smoking battlefields of newly-subjugated Meracydia, there is a palpable fever that’s overtaken the nation. The people have tasted the blood of conquest again and deemed it sweet. They hunger to return to a long-lost golden age.

To think that they’ve all placed their hopes on the shoulders of a man who wishes for nothing but the end of their world.

Yes, Elidibus can see Emet-Selch’s handiwork written all over it.

“You’re late,” Emet-Selch says even as they help Elidibus off the train. Ever the perfect gentleman. This time they’re a tall, lean man with the olive skin and red eyes characteristic of the royal bloodline. A minor branch with no claim to the throne, they’d explained to Elidibus—far enough to be non-threatening, close enough to get ahold of the Emperor’s ear. As for Elidibus’ part, he’s taken the flesh of a researcher and architect of some renown, a woman of minor nobility with just enough repute to be plausibly called to the capital to work on the Empire’s newest great undertaking: Dalamud.

“The trains were overcrowded.” Elidibus takes Emet-Selch’s offered arm with only the slightest hesitance, knowing it’s what’s expected of him here. There are eyes on them – there are always eyes on the royal family, no matter how distant from the throne they may be. “It seems a great many souls are moving to the city these days. The capture of Bahamut has opened the floodgates of innovation once more.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Emet-Selch says lightly, but Elidibus can tell by the way their gaze wanders that their mind has already moved on to other subjects. The banter is only an irritating reflex.

The two of them make a striking pair: Emet-Selch in black leather and gold adornments, Elidibus in flowing white robes. (No matter his circumstances or form, Elidibus cannot resist wearing white.) Elidibus’ hand on Emet-Selch’s arm draws a particular type of attention, as well. There will be rumors, he thinks sourly. He wonders if it is unusual to see Emet-Selch with someone hanging off their arm, or if they’ve taken mortal lovers in the past. The thought of it makes him frown.

“Come, now. What’s that face for?” Emet-Selch leans down as they walk, body curling over Elidibus’ in a mockery of intimacy. “Our plans proceed apace.”

“It’s naught of your concern.”

The physical closeness bothers him, although he takes care not to show it. Everything is too much when cramped into these diminutive bodies, each sound sharp and piercing, every feeling a pressure against his very soul. And at the same time he’s keenly aware of the senses this body lacks, palpable as a missing limb.

“Is that so?” Emet-Selch seems delighted by Elidibus’ evasiveness, to the point where they don’t even seem irritated when he doesn’t respond further. “You know, of all forms to take, I wasn’t expecting you to be a woman.”

“A woman?” It takes him a moment to recall what this means, and why it might be strange, but— Ah, right. “You know that we are not men, do you not? I fear you’ve spent too much time amongst these fragments.”

Red eyes glitter with amusement. “My dear emissary, you’ve much to learn of mortal customs before I can unleash you upon the scientists here.”

“Then you had best begin my education now, as I do not intend to linger long. This flesh is… restrictive.” He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is: I can feel it dying all around me.

A shadow seems to pass over Emet-Selch’s features then, but the unfamiliar face they wear makes the expression impossible to read.

“Already in a hurry to leave? We have much work to do, you and I.”

“I will stay for exactly as long as my task demands.”

“Of course!” Emet-Selch’s smile is firmly back in place. “But your stay need not be unpleasant.”

“No?”

They pass through a throng of people then, which precludes further conversation. This close to the imperial palace, there’s not a single passersby who doesn’t recognize Emet-Selch’s body. A few of the enterprising ones make overtures to them, calling them by the name they’ve taken; they offer a cold smile back and nothing more. Elidibus feels his strangeness keenly, not knowing how to act, whether he should acknowledge the suitors. A kaleidoscope of souls part around them. Thrice joined now, they’ve begun to assume near-recognizable colors – Elidibus averts his eyes.

Emet-Selch pulls him a little closer, and without much other choice, Elidibus finds himself shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Ascian, pressed close enough to feel the heat of their borrowed body.

He never does get another chance to ask what Emet-Selch meant.

A whirlwind round of introductions is made: Elidibus to the chief engineer, Elidibus to his teammates, Elidibus – briefly – to Xande himself, after being shuffled with much fanfare through the palace’s crystalline halls. He opts to bow instead of curtsy to the latter, not yet trusting his balance in his new form. The emperor hardly seems to notice him, but Emet-Selch clicks their tongue chidingly on the way out.

When it’s all over and Elidibus has made a perfectly unremarkable impression on everyone present, servants show him to his rooms. It’s a shockingly lavish suite situated directly next to Emet-Selch’s own. At this point, Elidibus knows without a doubt that he’s been played; this is not treatment befitting a chief engineer, this is treatment befitting a consort.

For his first night in Allag he pointedly does not seek Emet-Selch out.

It isn’t the first time Emet-Selch has kept things from him, and it won’t be the last. Elidibus has come to expect a certain level of unpredictability when it comes to his fellow Ascian. They are the sort to play games against themself for the sole purpose of entertainment. These games have no rules and no winning conditions; they are almost invariably convoluted, dangerous, and self-destructive. This time, Elidibus is one of the playing pieces.

The question is: are they asking for his indulgence, or asking for punishment? And furthermore—which one is Elidibus inclined to give?

He turns the problem over in his mind, over and over, like a river turning a pebble over and over until it’s smooth. No answers come. The short millennia since the shattering of their world have changed Hades; the shape of them is no longer clear in Elidibus’ mind. It is disturbing, to think how quickly tragedy has twisted them. Part of his time here, then, will need to be spent re-acquainting himself with this familiar new creature. It would not do to be caught off-guard like this again.

Elidibus wonders how he has changed; if he would notice, if he became someone other than himself.

In time, his body succumbs to sleep.

Emet-Selch appears at his door the next morning to assist with his dress and makeup. They show their hand easily when he prods about the true nature of his role here, which means they meant for Elidibus to see through their deception.

(Actions masking the intent of words; words masking the intent of actions. It is equal parts frustrating and nostalgic to play this game. And make no mistake, every conversation to be had with Emet-Selch is a game, and one which can be won or lost.)

“Officially, you’re here as a consultant,” Emet-Selch explains. They have a hand on Elidibus’ shoulder, steadying him as he goes through the unfamiliar motions of putting on pants. (This is a surprisingly time-consuming endeavor, and one that Emet-Selch appears to be taking immense pleasure in. Elidibus, who has missed the right pants leg twice now, is enjoying it considerably less.)

“Unofficially, you’re my consort.”

Elidibus pauses in his efforts to fix Emet-Selch with a glare.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I started the rumor. Besides—” they lean over Elidibus, smiling “—it’s a convenient lie. We’re afforded quite a bit of privacy.”

Privacy. As if it would be any effort at all to meet out of sight of these shattered, sightless fragments. Emet-Selch’s true meaning shines through clearly: they desire Elidibus’ company.

How unusual.

“I need them to take me seriously if I’m to perform my role here.” A deflection. It will be no effort at all for Emet-Selch to pare away the words and get at what Elidibus is really saying: I hesitate to humor you, because I don’t understand your intent.

Emet-Selch waves their free hand carelessly. “All you need do is open your mouth. No Allagan engineer could hope to match your knowledge of the construction of aetherial prisons.”

A non-answer, as if to say, _you’ll come around._

He finally gets the pants on. Emet-Selch pats Elidibus’ shoulder once, patronizingly, and withdraws. “You can manage the rest, I trust. I have to attend to affairs of the Empire now. We’ll meet again in the evening.”

The work is boring and tedious. Allag’s best scientists are still no better than children sticking their pudgy fingers into the delicate tapestry of the star’s aether. Elidibus smiles and tells them what they want to hear. Yes, he’s settling in alright. Construction is going well. They’ll meet the projected deadlines. 

In the daylight he poses careful arguments to the engineers on the merits of one kind of crystal over another for the conduction of aether. With only a few words, he can convince any one of them to make the wrong choice. No single error is enough to cause the failure of an aetherial prison of this size, with so many safeguards and redundant systems in place – but every day, he smiles, and makes another small suggestion, and introduces another flaw. It is a slow, meticulous manipulation. It is also what Elidibus excels at.

His nights are spent with Emet-Selch, who poses a problem which occupies considerably more of Elidibus’ attention. The other Ascian’s daily reports are difficult to extract, calculatingly vague at parts, and occasionally outright lies. Elidibus is well aware that the other Ascian considers him overbearing. He also knows that they invited him here regardless. He will continue to follow his nature until he understands why.

Tonight he forgoes knocking, mainly because he knows this irritates Emet-Selch. Instead he announces his presence with a brush of aether against Emet-Selch’s own, before phasing directly into their room.

“You need to work on your manners,” Emet-Selch says from where he’s slouched low on an overstuffed armchair, not looking up from his tomestone.

Elidibus remains standing, though Emet-Selch always ensures there’s a second chair for him. “I’ve no interest in adopting the ways of mortals.”

“You should.” Emet-Selch’s idle flicking at their tomestone belies the sudden sharpness in their tone. “Our work is easiest when we move undetected. The ability to blend in is an asset.”

“Our methods differ. Where you inhabit a single body for long periods, cultivating influence, I prefer a lighter touch, albeit in many different places. I need convince only for a moment.”

“You spread yourself thin.”

“I’ve no choice.” He studies Emet-Selch carefully. There is an air of tension about them, like a large cat crouched low, shoulders bunched, waiting for a moment to strike. He recognizes that this is no friendly debate. Even before, Emet-Selch had rarely shown their face in the debate halls because they hated to lose—and precisely because they hated to lose would always keep some devastating piece of knowledge up their sleeve to turn the whole proceedings on its head. Elidibus, well aware of this tendency, opts to cut the conversation short and return to his original purpose. “Have you prepared a report?”

Emet-Selch sighs, and raises their head. They have a gleam in their eyes that spells trouble. “Do you know why I really asked you here, Elidibus? I thought you needed a vacation.”

Elidibus stiffens.

“You know how I hate your micromanaging. So just… don’t.” An unfamiliar mouth assumes a very familiar, patronizing smile. “Relax a little.”

For the first time: a flicker of anger. “You waste my time.”

Emet-Selch laughs. “Time! What have we more of than time? Why do you keep so busy, Emissary? I think it’s the same reason why I sleep.”

Their eyes glitter, fixed on his own.

“Grief.”

Elidibus is silent. Emet-Selch smiles a victor’s smile, a vicious smile.

“If you want to leave so desperately, then leave. I can manufacture some reason for your disappearance. A lover’s quarrel, maybe.” They gesture carelessly, hand flopping limply on their wrist. “But if you’ll stay, Emissary—? Do me a favor, and find time to indulge yourself.”

This is what Elidibus knows of grief: it wants you to look.

Elidibus’ grief lives nestled at the top of his spine. It was embedded there, like a knife or a splint, the day Amaurot fell to pieces. Like a knife because the sharpness of it cut away the excess until he was the correct shape to do what must be done next. Like a splint because it holds him together, so long as he does not pull it out. The danger of this grief is that it invites him to cut himself open to look at it, invites him to ruin himself.

It is easy to fall into one’s grief forever. It is easy to cut open one’s flesh shallowly, but then reach in ever deeper. Elidibus knows this, and so he doesn’t look. In the way one might pinch at oneself to distract from a mosquito bite, he keeps himself occupied to resist the temptation.

Emet-Selch is clever enough to see the distraction for what it is, but perhaps not clever enough to understand the delicacy of this balancing act. Because – and this is where Elidibus finds genuine surprise – he thinks that Emet-Selch is, in their own way, trying to _help_.

Maybe that’s why he stays.

Elidibus’ routine remains largely the same. He plays his part in the labs, doesn’t look too closely at the color of the fragmented souls around him, and at night, he goes to Emet-Selch’s rooms.

But the daily reports and constant verbal fencing has gone. Now they talk about anything but the Rejoining. Each time Elidibus brings it up, Emet-Selch brushes the topic away. _We both know the construction of Dalamud goes well,_ they’ll say; _let’s speak of other matters, shall we?_

It’s during one of those nights, with the two of them sitting around the low table and Elidibus listening to Emet-Selch recount the latest machinations of various royal branches vying for power, that it occurs to Elidibus that he is being _courted_.

The realization is nearly enough to bowl him over. He certainly loses track of who is attempting to poison who in the endlessly rotating cast of minor royals. Had Emet-Selch arranged the position of lead engineer – invited Elidibus under the pretense of needing assistance – tolerated months of daily reports – simply for this? His attention?

At last the pieces fall into place. Elidibus sees the shape of Emet-Selch clearly: a patchwork of a person, lonely, seeking comfort even from the company of shadows. Even from him.

Perhaps he’d overestimated Emet-Selch’s resilience. Or had he never understood the other Ascian at all?

Elidibus has always viewed love as more of an abstract concept than an emotion. It is a line which connects one to the things outside of oneself, in the way a shackle connects two wrists. He loves his people because he will do anything for them. He loves his city because he governs it. He loves Zodiark, because without Zodiark he would be nothing at all.

Zodiark loves Elidibus too, of course. The shape of His love is a thousand sharp edges pressed gently against Elidibus’ soul; dangerous, but never a danger. Because this is what love is: to hold another’s vital organs between your teeth and not bite down.

He has never considered love to be something one chases. It is something that happens, inevitably, like the flood that follows the storm. But here is Emet-Selch, dancing to bring the rain.

Elidibus considers what it would be like to love them. Despite all their grandstanding, their secretive schemes and insistence on working alone, maybe all they want is a hand around their neck.

That, Elidibus is inclined to give.

For once, he chooses to be direct. He loosens the tight grip he keeps on his aether, letting it brush against Emet-Selch’s own. To make an analogy—it’s like letting your legs fall apart naturally in your seat, and bumping a knee against your neighbor’s. He senses Emet-Selch’s reaction instantly through the touch. Surprise, distrust, hunger. They stop mid-sentence and blink at him, owlishly.

“Emet-Selch.” Their aether pulses warmly in response. “Did you bring me here for my sake, or for your own?”

Emet-Selch recovers quickly, slouching back in their chair.

“Why should I have just one reason?” By now they’ve gotten themself under control, and their aether is still and opaque where it contacts Elidibus’ own. They regard him with a half-lidded look. Elidibus is reminded now of a cat basking in the sun.

“I know you.” Slowly – as you’d approach a wild animal – Elidibus extends his reach, tendrils of himself wrapping delicately around Emet-Selch’s back. They stay perfectly still, unreadable, eyes narrow and thoughtful. “Though you may have many reasons, they all point towards a single purpose.”

“And what might that be?” A hint of a smile makes its way into their voice. It’s warm, not at all mocking. Almost affectionate. It makes Elidibus want to draw his aether the rest of the way around and _squeeze_.

He pushes away those ungentle desires quickly, before they bleed through his aether. But he can’t suppress the bite in his tone when he says: “You’re lonely.”

Emet-Selch’s face darkens. Although they don’t move their body, Elidibus feels how they draw their aether inwards, away from Elidibus, whose own aether is now pressed to their back like a cupped palm. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

They bare their teeth. “Then what is this?”

“I’m giving you what you want.” Elidibus tilts his head. “Is that not to your liking?”

“I’m not your toy.”

“That’s not what I said.” He pauses, considering. “Only three of us remain. Where one falters, another must be their strength. Don’t you agree?”

Elidibus is coiled so closely around them that he can feel the restless churn of their thoughts. Perhaps it would have been kinder to pretend. But Elidibus has never been particularly kind. And Emet-Selch would only have been more furious at the deception.

“And what of yourself? Don’t you ever falter?” Emet-Selch demands. There is a rising fury behind their words. “You know, Emissary, I always wondered how you seemed so strong in the aftermath. Always looking forward. While Lahabrea and I wept, you made plans. But I see now. Whatever is inconvenient about yourself, you simply pretend it isn’t there.”

They stand, brushing away Elidibus’ suffocating grip with a sudden burning conviction. He lets them, bemused. 

“Come. I want to show you something.”

A whisper of power and they’re suddenly in a spire of Xande’s grand palace. The city is visible below them through the window, glittering in the night. The interior of the palace is all shining stone and gleaming gold. Towering arched windows let in slanted rays of sun that set the whole place glittering in a kaleidoscope of hues, as precious gems inset in the furnishings and fixtures catch the light and bounce it across the room. It is garish in its extravagance. Emet-Selch seems ill-at-ease in the brightness and shields his face with an arm, hurrying over to a door and punching in the access code.

“There,” they snap as the door slides open. “You wanted to know why I brought you here? There it is.”

Elidibus approaches warily, not trusting Emet-Selch’s wild shift in mood. Lights flicker on in the interior, but not the harsh cold light of the labs – instead a soft, warm spotlight illuminates a raised dais, and on it is a grand piano.

_Elidibus’_ grand piano.

All else falls away. With a touch of his aether he confirms: it’s no aetherial construct, but a true reproduction. Some of the materials are incredibly rare in this world – it must have taken Emet-Selch years to source it all. Elidibus can’t recall walking into the room, but without realizing he’s ascended the dais, touching the wood with his bare hand. He slides into the seat in a daze, hardly able to believe his own senses.

Elidibus runs his fingers reverently over the keys. His body is all wrong, but the piano is scaled down for his current size. He remembers Emet-Selch being meticulous about detail in the past, but this is something else: on this key, a scratch where an errant claw had scarred the wood on one night when Lahabrea had burst into the room where Elidibus practiced, impetuous as ever, to declare the success of his latest aetheric experiment… the memory rises up vividly. He’d forgotten all these little moments. But Emet-Selch remembers.

“Well?”

Elidibus breaks out of his reverie with a start. The other Ascian stands in the doorway, framed by the sunset.

“It’s…” Elidibus finds he can’t muster up words. Emet-Selch comes up beside him and puts a hand on the lip of the lid. They aren’t looking at him, but their aether presses against his, tense with anticipation.

“Will you play for me?”

Elidibus hesitates. He puts one finger on a key, eases it down. Slow, inexorable pressure. The resistance is as he remembers, too. The hammer strikes silently within the instrument’s body, hitting the string so gently that he can’t make out the note.

It’s hard to imagine making music again. The piano is his, but the beauty of the sound belongs to someone else, someone who remembers how to live. What he is now there are no words for. A dead thing that mimics the vivacity of the living; an exquisite corpse. He keeps his memories of Amaurot encased in a layer of glass. To crack the glass open, to pull out those preserved relics and dirty them with his fingers – would it be worth it, if he could play again? Could he remember what it felt like to be alive in that time before time?

Emet-Selch waits.

“Why are you giving me this?”

Emet-Selch looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I want to help you.”

So they keep saying, but Elidibus finds it difficult to accept. And yet…

“If I play, will you sing for me?” He releases the key and rearranges his fingers. A song takes shape in his mind. Something he’d played often in the past, when the fourteen of them would pack into the rehearsal room and celebrate Mitron’s latest deep-sea expedition, or Halmarut’s newly-developed crop. “I… remember. You enjoyed it.”

Emet-Selch looks at him like they’ve been struck. For a moment Elidibus thinks he’s made a misstep—but then they nod, stiffly. Satisfied, Elidibus raises his wrists, and begins to play.

The glass cracks. In the dim warm light, it’s easy to imagine being back in the halls of the Convocation. The city is around him, alive, whole. The piano is perfectly tuned and responds to him as if he’d never taken his hands off it in his life, each note ringing out flawlessly. It’s been millennia since he’s played. His hands remember better than his mind.

Elidibus’ grief lives embedded in his spine. Tonight, it aches and burns.

And Emet-Selch begins to sing, low and warm, in a language that has not had a people to speak it for thousands of years.

.

When Allag falls, two figures stand high up in the palace’s spires and watch through the arched windows as the coming oblivion rolls through the city, rendering it all to dust. By the time it reaches the palace, however, they’ve both gone, and the dais in the room lies empty.

If you were to ask Elidibus, of all artifacts to survive the end of Allag, only one can be considered truly precious.

**Author's Note:**

> If it interests anyone, [this is the body Elidibus took](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EBq8WaqU4AQ0g-M?format=jpg&name=large). I affectionately refer to this identity of his as "Diana."


End file.
